xp_logs | Haller & Arthur

Eighteen hours after his encounter with Death, Arthur awakes in observation under the watchful eye of Haller.

(Potential content warning: mental distress)

The world burst back into being.

Arthur cringed against the glare. The sterile, measured lamplight of the medlab wasn't overly bright, but to the man in the bed it was like everything was lit in stark relief. Sound was an afterthought. His hands immediately began searching for his phone. His earpiece.

He tried to breathe, but his breaths only came in short, shallow gasps. This made him only try harder, and soon the man was coughing. His neck and chest were a mess of bandages and swelling.

"I'm sorry," he offered to no one. Everyone.

Jim winced. And yet, even as he looked down at his friend's painfully battered form, the part of him that never let him forget anything (namely, Cyndi) elbowed him hard and said, See? See?? THIS IS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE.

"Don't apologize for breathing, Arthur," said the telepath, moving to scoop the man a cup of ice-chips from the container on the opposite side of the room, "they're actively trying to encourage that. How's your head?"

"My head?" The words were delivered like a student who had forgotten there was a test.

Arthur bolted upright suddenly, or he would have if he wasn't strapped down. Tubes jostled as the man thrashed in confusion.

"Haller, I saw her go toward Death. She isn't part of what I saw. We have to save her. I have to . . . "

"Hey, it's okay." Jim hastily returned to the bedside, though he made sure not to come close enough to touch the other man. Neither of them needed an unexpected power loop right now. Instead he just took a seat in the visitor's chair, placing the ice chips on the table beside him.

"If you mean Hope Summers, she's fine. She's the one who brought you to a pick-up point, actually. Uh . . . using a piece of cardboard as a stretcher, apparently." Fortunately Arthur hadn't been suffering from any spinal injuries, but it probably hadn't helped the concussion.

"Hope? Hope." The man's eyes were fixed somewhere in the middle distance. He cringed again, like an athlete deliberately flexing a muscle despite injury.

Nothing. No starburst. No power.

A hand traveled up to his left eye just to double check. His fingers came back wet, and Arthur stared blankly at the tears he didn't know he was shedding.

"Does he still have it? Did it work?"

Jim's heart jerked. Somehow seeing Arthur cry was an even bigger shock than seeing the man hurt — and it was only now that he realized that he couldn't remember ever having seen Arthur injured before. Ever.

He stepped away from the feeling. He stilled his heart and placed it to the side, safe and separate to deal with at some other time. Distress couldn't be met with distress. Not when someone was grasping for purchase and you were the only thing within reach.

"Does who have what?" Jim asked, wishing he could at least take the man's hand.

Longshot jerked into motion again, and Jim's wish was met whether he wanted it or not. But . . . there was no psychic resonance. No astral ghosts. Only Arthur's wet, maniac eyes ablaze with purpose right in front of him.

"Jim, I had to let him have my powers. It had to be a choice. There was a man inside of that thing, and he was trapped."

Jim froze, then put his other hand over Arthur's, redoubling the grip.

"Do you mean Marius?" Jim realized, grateful this was something he could honestly be reassuring about. He met the other man's eyes and tried to make Arthur see the surety in them. "Marius is safe. Garrison got him. He's here, too. You're in worse shape than he is." Still watching Arthur's twisting face Jim said, without really understanding why but still somehow sensing the truth of it, "It worked."

"It worked," the broken man echoed. He visibly relaxed, slumping backward into the hospital bed. "It worked. I saw . . . too much. But it worked."

Jim squeezed Arthur's hand again. "Yeah. It worked. They're safe. Everyone is safe. So just rest right now, okay? We'll fill you in later."

Something had happened. Jim had the sinking feeling he knew what some of it might have entailed, but that would have to wait. Arthur was barely lucid, for a start, and it was impossible to know how much of this might be true powers bleed and how much was organic trauma. Recovery from the concussion itself might further complicate the issue. He needed to talk to Jean. The intermingling of physical and psychic damage was her area more than his, and he wasn't sure he trusted himself to be operating with total objectivity at the moment anyway.

Arthur, be it from either the strain, contentment in a job done, or simple exhaustion, was already back asleep.

Jim stayed for a while longer, hand still over Arthur's until he was sure the other man was down for good. He understood what it was like to be so thoroughly unmoored — not just from space and time, but from one's own sense of self. Especially after this past winter. When you didn't even know your own mind sometimes the only thing you had to hold onto was someone who did.

His own tears would come later.